


Hunger

by etothepii



Category: Nolanverse - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-04
Updated: 2008-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-13 22:32:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etothepii/pseuds/etothepii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce is <i>hungry</i> when he wakes up. Contains Vampire!Batman, violence, etc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunger

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Batman Kink Meme.

  
Bruce is _hungry_ when he wakes up, and the sharp, slightly _wrong_ scent of his own blood immediately drowns out his senses. He stirs, but sees only darkness when he opens his eyes. His wrists are bound in front of him with rope, as are his feet. His side hurts, aching, and stinging and _burning_ with an unnatural, familiar hunger. It’s always worse when he’s hurt.

He jerks his head away and snaps his teeth when a stranger's hands slip over his face, poking between his cheek and the fabric-mesh-thing of his cowl. He is rewarded with nails-on-chalkboard laughter and the sudden removal of the blindfold.

He can’t stop the instinctual cringe away from the light, the baring of his teeth at his captor. The fucking _Joker_. The Joker, who is the enemy, who he can hurt and rip and tear, and call it justice. The Joker, who is _bleeding_ (and oh, now that he's filtering out the scent of his own blood, the only thing he can smell is _his_ , warm and alive and _human_ ). The Joker, whose neck is bare and pale and pulsing with _life_.

"Untie me," Batman snarls in his hoarse, forever-angry voice. It wavers, and he knows his eyes are staring intently at the pulse-point of the Joker’s throat. The man doesn’t seem to notice.

"Now, now, now, Batman," the Joker chides, whipping out a knife and working it between his fingers and the cowl, "Why would I want to do _that_? We’ve barely gotten to know each other yet."

The Joker nicks his finger with the knife, and blood wells up. Batman can’t see it, but he can _smell_ it, and he’s so _hungry_. It's been days, too long since the last, guilty gulps of cold, dead blood from a butcher’s shop. His veins are burning with need, a pain that hums in his entire body, as if to say, _do it_.

The knife cuts through his cowl, first one one side, then on the other. The Joker's tongue darts out between his lips in concentration and suddenly, it is the only thing Bruce can see, pink tongue between red, red lips as brilliantly bright as fresh blood.

His control holds while the Joker pushed top half of the torn cowl up, over his face, holds at the surprise in his face, the transmutation from "Oh goody!" to "Holy fuck it's Bruce Wayne", holds right up until the thumpthump of the Joker's heart becomes a pitterpatter and the rope around his wrists and ankles catch on the blades of his suit and in one wrench, he is _free_.

He surges upwards, grabbing the Joker’s throat in a vicegrip. Bruce (he’s Bruce now isn’t he, the Bruce that had come home after so many years away and said brokenly, “I’m not _human_ anymore”) barely even notices the knife that goes into the side of his throat, once, twice, and _crack_ as he catches the Joker’s wrist mid-motion and crushes it. The bones snap like matchsticks.

“Oh, now, I didn’t think I’d see this,” the Joker gasps breathlessly in his grip, mouth wide and grinning. “Billionaire by day, lunatic in a bat suit by night?”

The gaping tear in Bruce’s neck already knitting shut, closing sluggishly, but every second of inhuman healing is an increase in the pain burning through his veins, the choked, angry, all-encompassing _hunger_ that beats through his body and eats away at his control almost as much as the maniac before him does.

He can smell the sharp, acrid scent of the Joker’s rising nervousness, and he knows his teeth were lengthening, becoming fangs that glisten in the light of the one dim bulb that illuminates the room. And then the fear fades and the Joker tosses his head back and laughs, exposing his pale, clear, _throat_. Bruce’s control _snaps_.

His fangs sink into the Joker’s throat easily, slicing through skin and ripping open the veins as if they are little more than tissue paper. The blood that floods his mouth is clear and fresh and _perfect_.

There was no words for how _right_ , how _perfect_ blood was, better than sex, better than alcohol, better than any of the stupid little vices he entertained during the day to drown out its call of in the night.

Behind the laughter and the makeup, the Joker is just another human being, little more than _prey_ to the darkest parts of himself, the parts that even Batman hides from himself. And he is _delicious_.

Bruce moans in ecstasy, and the Joker moans too, breath hitching, hips rubbing against the suit. When Bruce raises his eyes from the Joker’s neck, feeling good, better than good, better than he’d felt in a long, long time, strong and healthy and whole, the Joker’s eyes are glazed with desire.

This is different, this isn’t how it was meant to go, but then, things never happen the way they were meant to go with _him_. When Bruce looks at him, hungering, monstrous, mouth dripping with blood, the Joker only moans breathlessly, " _Yes. More,_ " and presses their mouths together.

The Joker tastes like blood and glee, fearlessness and lust, makeup and gunpowder. Bruce shoves his tongue into the Joker’s mouth and he _bites_ it, drawing blood, but he doesn’t break the kiss until he hears the laughter, the fucking _laughter_ , vibrating against his mouth.

The Joker wavers on his feet, unsteady, leaking a trail of blood down his throat, down the line of his collarbone, and it was unfair that a man so handsome could be a _monster_ underneath it all. But he’s said the same about himself.

“Wow, Brucey (do you mind if I call you Brucey?), you’re just chock full of surprises, aren’t you? I mean,” he continues with a widening, happy smile, hand touching the wound at his neck, “I knew you were a freak, but heh heh heh, I didn’t know you were _this_ much of one.”

The Joker’s tongue darts out again, licking his lips, and Bruce knows they’re bleeding, can see the blood, can smell it, can _feel_ it calling to him. He can smell the Joker’s desire lingering in the air, urging on his own, and somehow, he is powerless to stop himself from slamming the Joker against the wall and kissing him again, thrusting their bodies together with a punishing force.

 _Yes yes yes yes_ , the darkness says, and his hands scrabble against the Joker’s body, popping the buttons of his ridiculous green vest off with quick, light tugs, then the ones on his shirt and—was he wearing a _tie_?

Beneath all that, the layers of clothing, the Joker is warm and bare and _alive_ , as clean and beautiful as any of the women Bruce had been with. He pulls off the gloves of his suit, drops them carelessly on the floor, and when he touches the Joker’s chest, it feels normal, nothing more than human, as ordinary as any man off the street. The Joker’s heart beats against his palm. For a second, Bruce _hates_ him, hates this man who is still _normal_ while _he’ll_ never be, while he’ll always be _wrong_ , no matter how hard he tries, how much he wants.

His fingers curl into claws and tear four stripes of red from the Joker’s chest to his belly, just barely slicing open the skin, and the Joker _groans_ , arching as if the only thing he can think of is to get closer.

The Joker’s hard, and Bruce is too. He can feel it through the groin-plate of his suit, their hips stuttering together, grinding together with a painful friction, and there is a hand there now, searching. It skitters like a spider over his groin, his waist, his belly, until it finds the hidden clasps between the plates and the fabric, fumbles at them inexpertly until they snap open, one by one by one. Bruce plucks the armor off piece by piece, and lets the plates drop to the floor.

He’s naked but for a pair of boxers underneath, and the Joker’s hand slithers expertly into them (oh he’d done this before hadn’t he?), fingers curling around his hard cock and stroking.

“Yes,” Bruce breathes. He breaks the kiss to rub his mouth against the Joker’s throat, tongue lapping at the blood, slicing open new wounds with sharp, sharp fangs. He wants to bite so he _does_ , another mark left on the Joker’s warm, living body.

The Joker laughs again, as if this is funny, as if _everything_ is hilarious, but all he says is, “Yes. Yesyesyesyes. Always knew you had it in you.”

There is nothing else to say, not right now, not while they are both exposed and hard and rubbing mindlessly against each other. Bruce pops open the top button of the Joker’s pants, then the next ones, and there is only bare, heated flesh underneath. _Human_ , he thinks again.

And when he drags a fingertip up the underside of the Joker’s cock, the Joker’s head thumps backwards, hitting the wall, and he murmurs, “Yeah. Yeah that’s good. Mmm, that’s good, harderharderharder _hurt_ me. _Batman._ ” The words slur together, one long stream.

So Bruce does. He grabs the Joker’s broken wrist, grinds the broken bones together until the other man _whimpers_ , making soft, breathy sounds of pain between moans of _yes_ and _more_.

“Don’t you _ever_ shut up?”

“Of course not. That’s not as,” the Joker’s grip on him shifts, their hands bumping clumsily until they both gasp as their cocks finally rub against each other, skin on skin, friction and pain and “ _fun_ ,” the Joker continues with a lust-darkened look. He licks his lips. “Don’t you think so?”

And he does he does he does, because every part of Bruce, of Batman, of _thing_ is so. Fucking. Turned on. It’s like every night beating men into a bloody pulp under the guise of justice, every night spent fucking a beautiful model, every time he finds someone who won’t be noticed and _drinks_ until he’s _high_. It’s all of those things rolled into one man, violence and sex and blood, laughter and gasps and moans.

“Batmanbatmanbatmanbatman _Bruce_ ,” into his ear like the last word’s the punchline to a dirty joke, and it must be, because at the sound of his name, he comes, shuddering and gasping, harder than he’s ever come in his _life_ , and he thinks this might be what love feels like.

And almost immediately, the world’s not so perfect anymore, because the Joker’s sliding slowly down the wall, still hard, still stroking himself, legs spread wantonly. But the look in his face makes Bruce _scared_ , because it’s more than just lust-filled and unfocused with pain.

It’s _knowing_.

The Joker’s triumphant laughter follows him as he leaves.  



End file.
